Brothers in Arms
by PrinceofElsinore
Summary: AU. It is 1916, and Ludwig has been waiting for two years to join his brother in the army. When he does, Gilbert promises they will both make it out alive. But the trenches are not what Ludwig expected. Even less expected is what develops between the brothers, and how they attempt to keep their souls alive, even as death threatens at every turn. M for war violence and incest.
1. Prologue

Warnings: OCs used.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

...

**Prologue**

"You shouldn't go."

The golden-haired boy looks at his pale-haired brother who has spoken. Pale everything brother. Pale always, since he has returned from France.

The golden boy smiles, but his confidence is confined to his mouth merely—it does not reach his heart. "I will go, Gilbert."

Gilbert is silent. And pale. Always pale.

…

"Come along, Ludwig! You don't want to miss out on all the fun, now do you?" The barrel-chested boy's booming voice rings out with glee as he turns back to his friend with the gold hair.

Ludwig frowns. "You know just as well as I do, Peter, that they aren't going anywhere. No reason to run and rumple your suit. One might as well show up at the office looking like a gentleman."

Peter laughs his hearty laugh. "You don't have to be a gentleman to join the army, comrade! Come on, Martin and the others are probably there by now!"

Grumbling, Ludwig breaks into a trot next to his large friend.

"Aren't you even excited?" asks Peter, glancing sideways at him.

"Of course I am!" he shoots back defensively. Of course he is. It is true. He's been counting down the days for the last two years. But his brother's words keep ringing in his head. You shouldn't go. His face, pale, his eyes haunted shadows of their former selves. Ludwig has noticed that change in him, but it had never seemed so pronounced as when he confronted Ludwig then in the drawing room.

As soon as they reach the office, though, all thoughts of Gilbert are dispelled from his mind.

"Kraus! Beilschmidt! What took you so long!" Hans Martin admonishes them cheerfully. "Berti and Rudi were betting you'd chickened out." He grins his wolfish grin, hands stuck in his pockets.

Peter pretends to take offense. "Never! Beilschmidt the gentleman just like likes taking his lousy old time."

Ludwig sniffs and straightens his necktie. It is a new suit; he is quite proud of it.

The others laugh at him, but it is all in fun. Their high spirits are catching, and soon Ludwig finds himself laughing along with his friends.

They are all there, his five best mates from school. There is, of course, Peter Kraus, the curly-haired locksmith's son, wider than any of the other two put together and nearly a head taller. Ludwig likes him best; he is a loyal friend. Bright, but lazy when it comes to schoolwork. But a good one to have on your side. Then there is Hans Martin, the de facto leader of their band. He is a natural leader, and always organizes their games of football and lays out the strategies. Sometimes his sense of humor borders on the cruel, and in school he fancies himself much smarter than he is; yet, he is clever. It is worth having him as a friend for he has a way with words and always gets exactly what he wants: the best bargains for cigarettes, more lenient punishments when he and his friends get into trouble at school. There is also Berthold Scholz and Rudolf Keller: Berti and Rudi. It is impossible not to mention them together, for they are always together. They are always getting into mischief, and always able to pull off their schemes just right, like placing tacks on the schoolmaster's seat while he's not looking, or sneaking licorice into their pockets at the general store. They are always generous in distributing such goods. And lastly Ambros Graf. Graf is a diminutive, scrawny boy, with spectacles that slip down his nose whenever he gets excited about anything. He has a somewhat haughty attitude, entirely unwarranted, for his father is a glorified secretary in local government; his family puts on airs. Despite his sense of superiority he always tags along with the others, and withstands being the butt of their jokes because they are the only ones in the class that tolerate him. Ludwig takes pity on him and tries to show him kindness, but not too much, or else he would cling to him. But he has earned Graf's respect, and that is something.

Ludwig is the quietest of them all. Some mistake it for surliness, but his friends know better. They are not afraid to annoy him and flare his temper, for they know he will always forgive them, and they are the only ones who can make him laugh, except Gilbert of course. And Ludwig lets his friends copy his answers on homework assignments, so they are forever in his debt.

There are some other boys there from their class: Franz Meyer, a lewd boy who always makes obscene comments; Thomas Schneider, the best football player and a favorite with girls; and Karl Wulf, who always means trouble. Ludwig's father has often warned him to stay away from "that Wulf boy."

Ludwig's excitement mounts as the number of people between him and the table grows fewer and fewer. The officers are impatient, and call them up without delay. When Martin has finished before him, Ludwig goes to the table, heart pounding, and before he can quite process that this the moment he has been waiting for, to prove himself a man and join his elder brother on the front, his name is already in the book and the papers handed him and he is shooed off to the side.

Kraus grins at him as they leave the office.

When Ludwig steps outside, it starts to sink in. He feels more important, more mature, than the boys still in line, who have not yet officially joined. He knows it is ridiculous, as they will soon receive their papers as well, but he can't help but allow his chest to swell. He is going to be a soldier. And when he looks up at the sky it suddenly seems brighter, bluer than ever before, and sunlight is all around him and inside of him; he feels the throbbing of his heart, the rush in his veins, and the wind on his cheeks, and something immense and triumphant rising up within him.

He is going to be a soldier.

…

Ludwig is in good spirits at supper; Gilbert is not. Ludwig tries not to let his brother's sullenness ruin his own cheer.

He knows his father is proud, even if he does not show it much on his face. His mother is especially warm towards him; he expects she is more anxious, too, but she hides it well. She always knew Ludwig would follow his brother.

But after supper, when Gilbert has retreated without a word to his room, Ludwig has had enough. He goes up the stairs, knocks on his brother's door, and receives permission to enter.

Gilbert is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Ludwig has noticed him like that often, when he has been home from the front. He sits on the bed beside him.

"Well." He grins.

Gilbert looks at him blankly. "Well?"

Ludwig grows impatient. "You haven't said anything about me signing up. I'm coming with you this time." He smiles again, a little less, but Gilbert doesn't answer. Ludwig frowns. "Aren't you happy?"

"Happy?" Gilbert is looking at the ceiling again. "No, Ludwig, I'm not happy. I told you you shouldn't go."

Ludwig looks at his brother for a moment, then leaves the room, furious. His brother was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be proud. They were going to be together, be fighting together, as Ludwig had wanted ever since Gilbert first went away. He had thought his brother wanted that, too.

That night he comforts himself with the thought that Peter, Berti and Rudi, Hans, even little Ambros, will all be happy to have him along. If he hadn't signed up they would have left him behind, they would have looked down on him. He would not have any friends.

But still, Ludwig knows in his heart of hearts that it is a brother he wants most of all. He has cherished every letter from him and keeps them carefully folded in his bottom drawer. He has missed his brother. And finally, he will have him back. They will both be real men. He tells himself that Gilbert will come around. He still sees him as just a boy, but he'll show him. He'll prove himself, and then his brother will be proud, and happy.

That's what he tells himself as he nods off to sleep.

...

A/N: Oh look! Something new! If you are following Obsession, no worries, that series is still my priority! I just really needed to get this idea down, as it's been bouncing around my head nonstop since reading "All Quiet on the Western Front." I always did want to write a WWI story with the bros.

Apologies for the number of OCs in here-I promise it will be centered around the brothers most of all! I just needed some more characters and it really didn't make sense to have Italians and Austrians etc joining the German Imperial Army. Plus I kind of wanted to create some of my own characters. It's fun.

So, it's also quite different from my usual style-tell me what you think! I really love reviews!

Oh, and yes, this is going to be a Germancest story, in case you were wondering.


	2. Über Allen Gipfeln ist Ruh

Warnings: literary pretentions and German poetry

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya

...

**Über Allen Gipfeln ist Ruh**

Ludwig is restless. He walks from the hut to the kitchen several times simply because he does not know what else to do with himself. He checks his pack and his uniform several times over, making sure nothing is out of place. He is too anxious to join the others in cards. He smokes his cigarettes, one after another, until Gilbert warns him he'll probably want to save a few. Cigarettes are useful, not just for smoking, but for trading and bribing too.

It is that awful kind of restlessness accompanied by a terrible boredom as the hours drag by with nothing to do but sit, eat if there is food, smoke, sit some more. It is the restlessness of knowing that today nothing will happen, but tomorrow, so much could happen. It does not cross their minds that any of them could be dead in twenty-four hours, or if it does they quickly push the thought away. It does not do any good to dwell on that.

The new recruits are not excited; the long summer days of training have dulled that emotion in them. Nor are they nervous; perhaps some are anxious, though. They all are sick of drills, of orders, of interminable waiting. Their hands find tasks to occupy themselves, because it is better than doing nothing. Better to occupy the hands than let the mind wander. But the frustration is that none of it is any use. No matter what they do today, they cannot control tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they go to the front.

…

Ludwig is glad to be in the same squad as his brother. Gilbert's company needed a good number of replacements after their last stint at the front, so the new recruits filled in. Gilbert is a lance corporal; then there is Ludwig, with Kraus, Martin, Keller, Scholz, and Graf, who all trained together, and Gilbert's old mate Viktor Lange, who, true to his name, is a long-limbed, lanky fellow. He is the oldest by far, nearly forty, with a full beard and a face that makes one instinctively trust him. Though Martin is still the leader of the group, in matters of judgment even he defers to old Vicky.

Vicky has been in the war even longer than Gilbert. He left his factory job in the Ruhr to join the army in the summer of 1914. He does not speak much, but when he does, the others listen.

When Ludwig arrived here, at the camp several miles from the front, he had not seen Gilbert since leaving home. It made the infernal, endless training, the drills in the noon heat and summer downpours, the disciplinarians with their self-importance and delight in punishment, all worth it. Those memories paled next to the prospect of seeing Gilbert again.

Ludwig was happy to find that Gilbert was not as he was at home; not empty, aimless, wandering from room to room of the house or from street to street in town, never finding what he was looking for, or perhaps not looking for anything at all. Here was a glimpse of the old Gilbert, brash, joking. When he had come to greet Ludwig, Ludwig asked how the uniform suited him. Gilbert snorted and replied, "Not at all, you little squirt. What are you doin' here, in a man's clothing?" But there had been a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Ludwig felt important, special, having a brother who was already such an experienced veteran. Gilbert introduced him to other soldiers, invited Ludwig to play skat with them, and showed him how to sneak extra tins of beans and sausage. The older soldiers were more generous with Ludwig when trading, because they knew they couldn't rip him off like they could some of the other recruits. They knew Gilbert was always watching his younger brother's back.

Gilbert also peppered him with advice about how to recognize the difference between heavy and light artillery shells, the sound of the daisy-cutters and rifle fire over the larger guns, how to shelter oneself from different types of explosives, how to tell when it is safe to take off your gas mask. But Gilbert never dwelled on those things, preferring instead to tease and laugh.

But still Ludwig feels that something separates him and his brother—an invisible veil. Gilbert's merriment is not the same as it was before, at home in the years before the war. There is something harder to it. The laughs do not reach the heart, warm the soul. Even when Gilbert is grinning, Ludwig can tell he is not happy, not with his whole being, not as he was in his school days.

He figures that that is because Gilbert has seen combat. Soon, he will understand too; they will be the same. And then he will be able to look Gilbert in the eye, and truly see him. And Gilbert will look him in the eye, and finally realize, his little brother is a man. The veil will disappear. That is what Ludwig hopes.

…

Ludwig watches Berti, Rudi, and Martin engaged in a game of skat. Kraus and Graf look on, too, but they are much more invested in the game than Ludwig. They have laid bets; a cigarette each. Ludwig has smoked too many of his and won't risk it.

Gilbert has gone off with Vicky to find something good to eat.

Graf points up into the sky; his spectacles slip down his nose. Their attention is drawn to a dogfight, far off. They start betting on it instead.

"Everyone knows German airmen are the best!" says Martin confidently.

"The Tommies are no joke, though," cautions Rudi. Berti agrees.

Ludwig watches the planes loop and dive. He wishes Gilbert were there.

He gets up and goes back to the hut, digging around in his pack for a small book; one of the few personal items he carries with him. It is a collection of poems by Goethe.

For some reason, he feels self-conscious. He does not want the others to see him reading it, so he walks to the edge of the camp and leans against the side of one of the huts there. Before him stretches a wide field, tinted gold in the evening sun. It catches the tops of the distant trees, setting the forest afire with the reflections on thousands of leaves. Soon, the trees will start letting them fall to the earth.

Something makes Ludwig turn his head. He is just on time to see the German plane streaking downward, trailing a plume of smoke. It is almost graceful. The plane is too far away to hear over the distant thud of artillery, the low rumble of the machine of war. He thinks, Martin will have lost a cigarette.

He turns back to his book and settles down to read. Ludwig does not know why he chose Goethe; but he could only manage to pack one book, and it seemed fitting. A great German author, to remind him of home and homeland. That was what a patriotic soldier should do, he thought.

He likes the poetry well enough, he supposes. Well enough, at least, not to hear the approaching footsteps, until the little book is snatched up from his fingers.

"Ha! What's my Brüderlein got his nose in now?" sniggers Gilbert.

Ludwig scowls. "Give it back, Gilbert." He snatches at the book.

"No, I want to see!" Gilbert holds it out of his reach playfully. "Ah, Goethe is it? My little brother should be a scholar, not a soldier!"

"Just because I have an appreciation of good poetry doesn't mean you have to make fun of me." Ludwig crosses his arms.

"Who said I don't also appreciate good poetry? Maybe I wanted to come read with you."

Ludwig rolls his eyes. "Right. Gilbert the intellectual." Gilbert had always hated studying literature in school.

But Gilbert pauses for a moment. He looks out over the field, towards the trees, and a change comes over his features. He begins to speak.

"_Über allen Gipfeln__  
__Ist Ruh,__  
__In allen Wipfeln__  
__Spürest du__  
__Kaum einen Hauch;__  
__Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.__  
__Warte nur, balde__  
__Ruhest du auch."_

A shiver runs down Ludwig's spine. He has never thought much of that rhyme before; something for children at bedtime. But now, in the calm of the evening, unpunctuated by breeze or birdsong, only by the distant drum of guns, there is something new in the words.

"I… didn't know you liked Goethe."

"I don't." Gilbert hands him back the book.

They are silent. They sit back down against the side of the hut and watch the sunlight on the trees slip away towards the horizon.

Suddenly Gilbert speaks.

"Ludwig, listen to me." He is serious, more serious than Ludwig has heard him since the day he volunteered. "When we go out there tomorrow, you do as I say. Do you understand? You do exactly what I say."

Ludwig nods. "Yes, Gilbert."

Gilbert looks at him. His eyes are flames in the setting sun. "I promise you, Ludwig, I will protect you. We will both survive, because we must. I promise we will both live, for each other."

Ludwig's throat is hot and tight. He knows Gilbert has broken the tacit agreement among soldiers, not to speak of such things, not in earnest. But Gilbert is earnest. And he has made an impossible promise. But Ludwig prefers to believe him, to put his trust in his older brother, because he has nowhere else to put it.

Across the field, the quiet treetops are covered darkness.

...

A/N: Clearly, I have WWI on the mind. Had to get one more chapter out. It's nice to write something that doesn't take an age and a half to finish.

Goethe's poem translation (using Longfellow's translation because it captures the essence nicely, even if it's not the most literal):

O'er all the hill-tops  
Is quiet now,  
In all the tree-tops  
Hearest thou,  
Hardly a breath;  
The birds are asleep in the trees:  
Wait; soon like these  
Thou too shalt rest.

There is something vaguely eerie about that poem in my opinion. It is beautiful, though.

Thanks for reading! I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Do you find the style effective? It's really an experiment for me. If any of you have read "All Quiet on the Western Front," I hope this doesn't seem too derivative. Perhaps once I start developing the brother's relationship further it will become clear it is a very different story. But the novel is so beautiful, it's hard not to steal from it just a little bit, and anyway it's such a useful historical reference!


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